


Heat Tora

by SeveredMooseHead



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 06:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8567032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeveredMooseHead/pseuds/SeveredMooseHead
Summary: In the wake of a violent reign of terror in the ring involving the masked wrestler Heat Tora, George Hare, an angry sports writer vows to uncover the secret of this brutal masked man. George gets more than he bargained for when danger begins to erupt outside of the ring, surrounding him and his investigation. A short story to celebrate the release of Sun and Moon.





	

I heard the wet smack of the body hit the mat. I didn't see it. I couldn't bring myself to look, even if it was my job. The crowd was silent – strange for a title card match starring a wrestler as famous as Hunter Smith. The air was heavy with whispers and gasps. Looking around, I saw for myself the horror in the faces of the spectators lining the stands. There was nothing more to do but finally look and confirm the damage.

The fight wasn't quite over yet, but it was close. Hunter Smith, blonde and muscular, was leaning on the ropes, struggling to right himself. One arm hung limp, and his other shook from weakness as he hoisted himself to his feet. His face was a mess of red cascading down from an unseen wound hidden above the line of his blonde hair, slick with hair gel and blood. One eyes was closed, and the other was blinking hard to keep his vision clear. The man's face held determination, but only enough to hold the terror at bay. His body was ruined, but he couldn't stop. He had to overcome this. He had to find a way to keep going.

Finally on his feet, Hunter turned, leaning on the ropes heavily, and tested his injured arm. He could still move it, but he winced in pain every time he did. He stepped forward, forcing himself not to limp as he did.

I looked around for the referee. Surely this was the limit. He had to stop the fight, or else Hunter could be doing permanent damage. As I predicted, the ref ran up and barked some orders I couldn't hear over the low rumble of the crowd murmuring over their limping hero. However, something had snapped within Hunter. To my horror, he pushed the ref away hard before he could raise his hands to stop the match. Before the ref could stand and stop it, he rushed forward, pushing himself to attack and end the fight with a clutch win.

I could feel my voice crying out something. I don't think they were words, just noises of surprise and fear as I saw a red blur spin around Hunter.

I got a perfect view of that perfectly sculpted back, with muscles rippling as thick arms circled around Hunter's waist. He was wearing what appeared to be a deep red bodysuit with Incineroar-stripe patterns up and down the arms and legs, with a gray muscle shirt over it, distressed at the shoulders extravagantly and held down at the waist by a bright orange belt. Over his head, he wore a mask, with ears erect over his head, and framed by tufts of fiery fur. The moment seemed to last for a long time, allowing the horror to sink in. I recognized the way that wrestler was holding Hunter, in the position of a German Suplex. This was the moment. The fight was already over, even as Hunter continued to struggle in futility.

It happened all at once. The muscles of his back tightened and slid, not hidden at all beneath the tight shirt he wore, and he bent himself backwards. I expected that to be the end of it – Hunter's shoulders would slam into the mat, that monster would hold him there, and with the three-count, Hunter would lose.

 _The angle is wrong._ That was my sudden thought as I saw just the slightest change of angle in the red wrestler's back. His spine seemed to bend impossibly further than should have been possible, allowing him to overshoot the suplex. Hunter had tucked his head, as he had learned to do when taking such an attack, but that didn't help. Instead of his shoulders hitting the mat absorbing the impact, the top of his head took the full force of the suplex. I had a front-row seat to the sight of the man's neck accordion shorter than it should have been. Hunter's eyes went wide, and his mouth opened in a silent scream, and then his eyes went unfocused.

However, his opponent wasn't done. He rolled over, easily hoisting Hunter's limp body, and turned, giving the arena another angle on the attack. I could see the face of the wrestler's mask, the unmoving face, and the yellow eyes above long, ragged whiskers. He gripped with huge hands around Hunter's torso, and, with a much more orthodox suplex, slammed Hunter one more time into the mat. This time, as soon as Hunter's shoulders touched the mat, they both froze. The Referee recovered from his own shock in time to slide forward and slap the bloodstained floor. One... Two... Three... and the bell sounded. It was finally over.

Flashes burst around me as cameras captured the moment of victory. The victor let the loser's limp body fall to the floor, discarded like garbage, and the referee, looking extremely unhappy, had no choice but to take one of those huge hands in his and lift it up over his head. With wide, yellow eyes, the man in the Incineroar mask raised both arms into the air in victory.

“The winner, ladies and gentlemen!” cried the voice of the announcer over the loudspeaker, “Heat Tora, the hellfire cat himself! Is there a wrestler who can defeat this terror of the ring?”

All of the journalists around me were scratching away at their writing pad of choice. The younger ones were typing away at tablets, while the old timers were writing down the skeletons of their stories in shorthand to take down later. My hand was frozen over the keys of my laptop. I was staring up at the ring, at Hunter's ruined body, as a stretcher was brought in to carry him away. In a delayed reaction, the crowd exploded. Cheers and boos played equally, and Heat Tora took both with pride, or at least with what seemed like pride under that emotionless face he wore.

A woman passed a cloak up into the ring, an orange cape with black stripes, and he draped it around himself dramatically, before leaping up out of the ring. He landed on the turnbuckle, and stood, perfectly balanced for a moment, wrapped up in his cape, before he leaped away, and sprinted from the ring.

I closed my laptop. I couldn't believe it. Hunter Smith was one of the best wrestlers in the KWF, while Heat Tora was an unknown. He was just a mid-card curio, part of the stable for less than half a year and yet Hunter didn't just lose. He was brutalized.

Dread pooled up in my mind, making me feel almost nauseous as I stared at the stretcher carry Hunter's body up the aisle and out to the locker rooms. I realized suddenly what I was truly worried about. I stuffed my laptop back into my bag, and got up, rushing in a different direction from the other journos in the bullpen.

“Where you going George?” cried one of my colleagues.

“To see if Hunter Smith is a corpse or not,” I answered, and rushed off.

I followed that stretcher. I had to see Hunter.

 

–

 

I knocked on the door, but I had no intention of letting anyone keep me out. I pushed the door open before anyone could give me permission, and scanned the room as I did. There was a woman crouched over Hunter's body, obviously a paramedic judging by her uniform. She was sweating, as were Hunter's manager and trainer. Next to the paramedic was a Clefable, who seemed so serious for something so pink and cute. The room smelt faintly of blood and sterilizer, but when I looked over the woman's shoulder at the bed Hunter was resting on, I could see he had already been bandaged up, and was breathing enough to be stable.

The paramedic turned around when she heard the door open.

“Sir,” she said, her voice serious, “You can't be in here.”

She began to approach, to chase me away, as if I was just another lousy journo looking for a story to sniff around. She stopped when someone cleared their throat.

“Let him in,” said Hunter's manager, Chip, a heavy-set guy sweating through his gym's t-shirt, “He's a friend.”

She wanted to argue, but instead she just shook her head and turned back to Hunter, stuffing supplies and instruments back into her bag.

“He needs to go to the hospital,” she said, “Broken arm, legs, ribs, and at least a few cracked vertebrae, not to mention the massive concussion, and he lost a lot of blood from that head wound.”

“He'll be fine, right?” I asked.

All four faces turned to me, and then looked anywhere but at my eyes. Bruce, Hunter's personal trainer, spoke first, slowly.

“I don't know...”

“It wasn't a clean break in his leg,” the EMT said, cutting through the heavy mood of the room, “He will be in traction, and even after that, he will have to relearn how to walk, and he'll never set foot in a ring again.”

“N-never?” I repeat, but she ignored me.

“I'm going to call ahead to the hospital. Don't try to move him,” she said, and then she left the room.

There was another moment of tense silence. I didn't know what to say to Chip and Bruce. There really was nothing for me to say. I had nothing to do with it. As we waited for the paramedic to return, I heard a wheeze, and then a weak, strained voice whispering my name.

Almost immediately, I fell to my knees next to Hunter's bed.

“George,” he said, his voice rasping and painful. His neckbrace was keeping his head still, and he didn't seem able to move the rest of his body, so he simply followed my face with his eyes. Still he managed a smile. “Here for an interview?”

“You're going to be fine, buddy,” I said, “It's nothing.”

“George. You're a lousy liar.”

I could see the fingers of his right hand twitch as he struggled to lift his arm. I placed my own hand over his to keep him from moving unnecessarily. “You don't have to talk.”

“A journo telling me to shut up? That's new,” he said, “You've got a recorder, right?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Get it out. I'll give you an exclusive interview.”

I wanted to argue again, but it was clear Hunter wouldn't stop talking. Better to let him get it out of his system. I reached into my bag and brought out a hand-held recorder I used for interviews and laid it on the pillow next to his head. I pressed the record button, and when he heard the click, he smiled.

“Alright,” I said, tightening my grip around his hand, “It's on. What do you have to say?”

“Heat Tora,” said Hunter, the very sound of the name catching in his throat and causing a look of pain and terror to come over his face, “He's... He's a monster.”

“You always had a gift for the obvious, Hunter. Tell me something I don't know.”

“Don't be a dick. I'm doing you a favor,” he said, before continuing, his eyes going unfocused. Maybe he was running through the match in his mind, trying to solve some mystery, “There's... something about him. He's strong. Too strong.”

“Strong? Is that why he overextended his suplex? Because he put too much power in it?”

“You... you think that was an accident?”

I paused, and realized that I already knew the answer to that, “No. He was in perfect control.”

“He wanted me dead. I could feel it. I... I don't know what I did to deserve it, but...”

“You didn't do anything.”

“I've... done enough,” he answered, “But that wrestler. He's like... it's like... nothing I've ever faced.”

He was getting worked up, so I put a hand on his forehead to calm him down.

“Don't get excited. You're in bad shape,” I said.

“It was like... being locked in a cage... With a rabid animal.”

I didn't realize he was going until he was already out. He closed his eyes and lost consciousness. I yelled for him to wake up, but it was no use. He was gone. Soon, the paramedic came back with backup, and soon had Hunter up on a stretcher and on his way to the hospital. I didn't follow, like Chip and Bruce did. I just stayed in the room, and stared at the place where Hunter Smith, my friend, rested his head and slipped into a coma. There were spots of blood on the pillow he left behind.

My brows furrowed, and my eyes became hard. Heat Tora. He was to blame for this. I clicked stop on my recorder and stuffed it back into my bag, and then headed out. I could surely catch the end of Heat Tora's press conference, and I still needed answers.

 

–

 

By the time I arrived in the conference room, I was glad to see the press conference was still going on. I came in, flashing my press badge, and immediately began to push my way to the front of the crowd, muttering my credentials if anyone tried to stop me. Eventually, I made it to the front, where there was a raised stage with a podium in the middle, with the logo of the Kanto Wrestling Federation emblazoned on the back in burning letters. At the podium there was a woman, the same woman who stood in Heat Tora's corner. She was perhaps around thirty, with tanned skin and white-blonde hair, kept long and so straight her hairdresser probably needed a ruler. She wore a gray business pantsuit, but with the top buttons of her shirt undone, revealing just a peek of a red, striped bra, chosen to match her client.

I don't know what she was talking about, but she was coming to the end of her answer soon, and it would be time to shout out a question. Behind her, wearing a jet-black suit and tie over his hulking muscles, was Heat Tora himself, still wearing his mask and staring into the audience with those yellow eyes of his. His eyes were moving, focusing on different faces in the crowd. Those were real eyes, although certainly wearing wild, colored contacts. His arms were crossed, only just contained by the tight fit of the suit, and at the end, he still wore red gloves over those massive hands of his.

The woman came to the end of her answer, and I raised my hand into the air. However, she looked past me to someone else in the audience.

“Yes?” she said, her voice gentle and low.

“KBC Radio,” said a man behind me, “Miss Isabella, where did you and Tora come from?”

The woman smiled, and gave a little laugh, leaning over the podium towards the asker. I was right in the path and saw the come-hither look she gave him, and could feel the man behind me shift uncomfortably.

She began her answer, “Tora and I come from a small league in Hao'li City, in Alola. Tora made quite a name for himself, but got too big for such a small pond. He is grateful to have this opportunity to compete with some of the best wrestlers in the world.”

I raised my hand, but began to speak without waiting to be called.

“Do you believe the brutality you've exhibited in the ring is a fine way to show your gratitude to the league that has given you this opportunity?”

The room fell silent. I could feel many eyes on me, including the gaze of cold interest of Miss Isabella, and the piercing glare coming from Heat Tora himself, who had finally found my face in the audience.

“Well! Such a leading question Mr...”

“Hare. George Hare, Saffron Tribune. Heat Tora, do you feel this brutality is necessary?”

“My client believes that...”

“Doesn't he answer his own questions?”

“Mr. Tora is not obliged to take any disrespect from any upstart journalists,” she said, her aloof smile seeming to dim, “As to your question, when one enters the ring there is always the danger that this fight will be your last. It is regrettable that a few have gotten hurt.”

“With all due respect Miss Isabella, but of the past ten matches with your client, six of the outcomes have all but ruined the careers of many promising wrestlers, including Hunter Smith.”

“Mr. Smith knew the risk...”

“He has multiple broken bones, a serious concussion, and may never be able to step into a ring again,” I interrupted, “Does Mr. Tora have any comment?”

Miss Isabella did not even pretend to smile anymore. She stared at me in open disdain as she began to answer my question in a measured tone.

“If you are insinuating that those injuries were anything more than unfortunate accidents, I must ask that we cut this press conference short. I will not stand for slander against my client.”

Murmurs, and then roars from the press were successful in drowning out my next question, and when she saw me sink back into the crowd as the other journos hungry for a story surged forward to engulf me, I could see her smile. The next question was a softball.

“When is your next battle, Tora?” said the voice of a woman.

Miss Isabella was happy to answer, putting up her previous air of aloof gratitude to be there, “We are booked to battle Phil Fabulous...”

“Going to put him in the hospital too?” I cried out.

Miss Isabella scowled, and began to answer, but a heavy hand on her shoulder stopped her. She looked over and saw that Heat Tora had unfrozen himself, and was walking forward, a wall of concrete poured into a tight-fitting suit, approaching me. I gulped, and considered fleeing, but I still had a job to do. I still had to write a story after this, even if I ended up being the headline.

The crowd around me melted away as the imposing wrestler hopped off the stage, and soon I was left alone, surrounded by empty folding chairs and abandoned tripods. That glare was trained on me, and I was frozen in it. I began to sweat. As he approached, I could see even more just how fit this man was, and as he came chest-to-chest with me, I could see that he was at least half a head taller than me. He could have swatted me like nothing.

I could feel his breath on the top of my forehead, pushed out through the nose and mouth-holes of that mask, and I thought he might finally break his silence and speak.

Suddenly, with the speed of an Arbok's bite, he grabbed hold of my collar, and before I could even struggle, he and I were eye-to-eye, with my nose nearly touching the tip of the Incineroar head he wore. It was made of what appeared to be real fur, and must have been fitted close to his own face. It seemed so realistic that some instinct deep inside my mind told me that I needed to get away – that a creature had me in its sights, and I was going to be its next meal.

We were silent, frozen as he dangled me over the ground, for what seemed like an eternity. A flash lit up my vision, and I grimaced. Of course this was going to end up in the papers. Even I could see what a good picture it was. With a sudden, strange vocalization, I felt another puff of air on my face, like a scoff, and he let go of my collar.

I fell to the ground, breaking the tense silence by scattering a line of folding chairs in my uncontrolled fall. After a moment of dazed breathing, I looked up, and saw, through the crowd that had reconstituted around me, Heat Tora turned his back on me and walked back up onto the stage, turned, and resumed his crossed-arm pose, frozen behind his manager. Miss Isabella smiled.

“Well,” she said, reaching beneath the podium and picking up an Incineroar-striped cape, and draping it around Heat Tora's shoulders, “It seems that means no more questions. Thank you ladies and gentlemen. See you next time!”

She stepped down off of the podium, and walked down a series of steps, followed by her client. I had by this time managed to struggle to my feet and push to the front of the crowd, and as soon as Miss Isabella saw me, she smirked. Tora stared as well as he passed, still warning me with his glare. Soon, they were both gone, and the other members of the press began to file out, giving me the side-eye as they left to pound out their stories for the evening editions and TV coverage. Few of them seemed happy, except for the one ecstatic photographer who managed to get that winning shot of Heat Tora assaulting a member of the press.

Eventually, I was alone in the conference room. I was left questioning my own motives more than anything else. Hunter Smith was a friend, but not a good enough friend to start a vendetta with someone as dangerous as a wrestler. Why had I spoken out?

A moment of quiet reflection came over me as I sat down on one of the folding chairs that was still standing. I just felt in my bones that Heat Tora had to be stopped. So many wrestlers had already had their careers ruined by his brutal style. Ending a career in its prime offended me, somehow. Those wrestlers still had stories to tell, and maybe I was arrogant enough to believe that I would have been the one to uncover and tell them. Now I never would. Hunter Smith was as good as dead as far as the KWF was concerned, and I would probably never write another word about him after this next article. That bothered me.

As I sat among overturned folding chairs shining with tan chrome in the fluorescent light, I decided that the next story I would chase was Heat Tora, to discover his true identity, and unmask him publicly, so everyone could see what a man filled with such cruelty looked like.

 

–

 

Without a word to anyone, I barreled down the hallway of the Saffron Tribune. Paper was spilling out of the cubicles of the other news people working their own stories from all across Kanto. The sound of fingers tapping on keys was white noise following me incessantly as I approached my space. It wasn't much, just a cube in a corner of the office to call my own, flanked by two people minding their own business as I approached.

In my chair, right where I left him, was Friday, typing away at my computer. I had learned long ago that a personal assistant was a good way to get more productive, but of course hiring an employee was too expensive. So, I figured, what's better than getting a pokemon to do the work for you? I smiled as the Elgyem turned to see me, and his eyes brightened.

“Hey buddy. We got work,” I say, rubbing the top of the gray pokemon's head affectionately. The jewel-like digits on the ends of his arms glowed as he raised his arms to touch my hand, and I felt invisible telekinetic tendrils touch me tenderly. It's how Elgyems say hi, I guess. When you can touch things with your brain, I guess you take advantage.

Knowing that the pokemon was already reading my mind to figure out what it was I wanted – takes forever to teach a psychic pokemon how to be a snoop, by the way. Most of them are way too polite about it – I laid my laptop down on one end of the cubicle and opened it up, before hoisting Friday up onto my shoulder and sitting down at the chair. He positioned himself facing behind me, with his little legs dangling in thin air, and from that vantage point he was able to reach out with his telekinesis and pick up my laptop while I took over for whatever he was doing on my main computer.

Minesweeper, it looked like, several games of it, going on all at once. Friday had a habit of filling up my screen with games, and playing them all at once with his powers. It was a little annoying, but I understood why. Poor guy just gets bored of keeping track of just one game at once.

“Alright, Friday,” I said as I closed out of all fifteen windows he had open on my desktop, “Heat Tora. Rising star. Real bastard.”

Friday was already a step ahead of me, and he made a squeak to get my attention, before floating my laptop screen to where I could see it. The searches were already loading, and information was at my fingertips.

I looked over what history there was of the guy, which was truly not much. His identity was under lock and key. He had nothing – no twitter presence, except for that manager of his, no facebook profile, except for his manager, no direct quotes, no family coming forward to cheer him on. Nothing. All he had on him to prove he existed were bookings of gigs in two-bit amateur circuits in Alola, an announcement that he had been picked up by Miss Isabella, and the announcement that they were going to take Kanto by storm.

Miss Isabella turned up a little more. Alolan, fairly obscure promoter in the pro-wrestling world until she teamed up with her latest client, when her portfolio exploded. She never had a big name before Heat Tora, and while she had picked up several assets since, Tora was still her biggest get.

I shook my head and waved a hand, and Friday made the laptop float away. Nothing much to help, honestly, or at least nothing I didn't already know. For that matter, I already knew most everything about Tora's career once he got to Kanto. He started slow, but then ramped it up in the past year with a ten win streak. His persona is classic bruiser, except that he doesn't talk. He's always been perfectly silent, and lets his promoter do all the mic-work for him. I checked the list of his victims, including Hunter Smith. Of the ten wins he's had, six were well-known face wrestlers, and the last four were nobodies and heels people hated even more than they hated Tora. The six good guys, talented, lucrative for the KWF, and all of them with squeaky clean personas, had all been destroyed by Tora, while the heels and the nobodies were just defeated without much brutality. I was sure the KWF wasn't happy about all the excessive violence.

I tried to clear my mind, which annoyed Friday since clearing my mind usually just made my thinking all the louder. I closed my eyes and thought long and hard about what was really going on. Tora was a flashy but ultimately one-note “Strong silent type” gimmick one day, and the next he turned a corner and started playing for keeps. Something happened around that time, and if my hunch was right, it had something to do with targeting the wrestlers he was fighting.

Money. It had to come down to money. The theory started to formulate in my brain, and Friday was able to skim the notions off the top and took note of them in my laptop. What reason would a wrestler have to injure other wrestlers in so-called accidents except to clear the field for themselves? I had to admit, Heat Tora merch was popular, but that couldn't have been the only thing. Even if he didn't win as often at first, Tora was popular almost as soon as he came to Kanto. The novelty was perfect for merchandise, and that mask was a great fit for t-shirt logos and coffee cups. He didn't need any help on that front.

What other income sources were there, though? If money is the issue, then where is it coming from, and from whom?

Friday tweaked one of my ears, and I opened my eyes. The laptop was floating in the air in front of my face, and I saw that he had managed to pull up a record the newspaper had on file. Betting books. Friday had a hunch of his own, and I smiled over at him.

“Good call, buddy,” I said, looking over the information.

First thing's first, Heat Tora's odds. I went in expecting to find something odd. I was looking for large bets placed against his opponent, or suspicious names or times, but there was nothing. Naturally the more he started winning, the more people tended to bet, but it was all just the normal spread for the odds he was given.

I shook my head and checked another page. Hunter Smith. At this, my eyes began to widen. Almost as soon as I saw the names on the list I leaned forward and started to pay attention.

“This can't be right,” I muttered.

But sure enough, there were several strange bets being placed on Hunter Smith in various matches – some of them high-profile ones – and always from odd names. There were more John Smiths than a love hotel with no vacancies, but these Johns were packing hundreds of thousands, and getting up to twice the amount back. It wasn't even bets on Hunter. Hunter tended to win a lot, so I looked back to a match about a month ago, when he took on The Black Hawk and lost, and sure enough the army of Johns laid down their money against Hunter.

“Match-fixing,” I said, quietly, wondering if that was the key to all of this. Hunter couldn't have said anything with his coach and manager in the room, and maybe didn't want it getting out to the press, but he had something he couldn't tell me. Maybe he was trying to get out, and Tora is actually some kind of enforcer sent to punish him for welching on some unknown deal.

It was the best lead I had, even if it wasn't much. I resolved to give it a try. If I confronted Tora with evidence, maybe he would fill in the blanks for me, or at least beat me up enough to let me know I was on the right track. I nodded my head and Friday mirrored my action. From there all we had to do was pound out a few inches on the day's match for the evening edition, and then we could focus on the real story.

 

–

 

A week passed. I wasn't sure what had happened behind closed doors with Heat Tora, but almost from the first moment of his match with Phil Fabulous, Tora was not the animal I had seen in the ring before. I didn't know Phil that well, but I knew he was a pretty good guy. He'd only been in the stable for a few months, so he was still making a name for himself, and leaned pretty heavily on his gimmick. True to his name, his costume involved lots of sequins and his entrance involved swinging around a feather boa and working the crowd like the pro he was. From how I understood it, he was an exotic dancer before he went into wrestling, and as he shook his assets for the appreciative men and women in the audience, I could believe it.

I cringed when the bell rang for the match to start, but I resolved not to look away. Tora was my subject, and I had passed off all of my regular column work to a junior reporter who needed a shot, so I could focus on what I told my editor was a “Profile” piece. I didn't mention the hatchet job I had planned out. That was a secret between me an Friday. As I thought of my Elgyem, my hand wandered to my pocket, where his pokeball was resting. I didn't usually carry pokemon on me – it simplified things in the field when you weren't getting bothered every ten steps by random strangers trying to pick a fight – but considering the guy I was planning to profile, I figured I should carry some kind of self-defense.

However, even as I thought about Tora's dangerous bearing, I noticed that the match wasn't going quite as I expected. The crowd was firmly on Phil's side, and Tora got some good hits in, but he wasn't the brutal wrecking ball I knew he could be. Phil only lost his composure once, in a near pin when Tora broke out at 1 and a half, and then rolled over and caught the flamboyant wrestler in an arm bar. He screamed, and I was afraid this was going to be it, but Phil pulled out of it after any damage could be done.

Tora ended up losing the match, to my astonishment, breaking his winning streak in what would be in anyone else's eyes a fantastic match. In my eyes, however, I could tell that Tora had held back. Why was this different? Why brutalize Hunter Smith, but let Phil Fabulous, a B-lister at best, win? What was his game? Did Isabella smell me on their trail, and decide to play it safer from now on?

Either way, when Tora left the ring and walked back up the catwalk, he was cheered on by the diehard Heat Tora fans, while everyone else was too busy celebrating the victor. I got a sudden idea, and stood to leave the arena as I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed a familiar number. As the phone rang on the other hand, I walked through a door marked “Employees only” that I knew was a back-way into the wrestler's dressing and locker rooms.

The phone clicked to life, “Saffron Arena, what do you want?”

I tried to make my voice as robotic as possible as I asked, “Long distance call from Alola for Miss Isabella. Will you accept the charges?”

“Alola? Jeeze,” said the voice, before a scratchy noise confirmed that he had covered the receiver with his hand. Still, I could hear him say in a far-away cry, “Hey! Isabella, There's a call here for you, from Alola.”

I tried to go down the stairs to the locker rooms as quietly as possible, waiting to hear that sultry voice on the other line. By the time I heard the phone on the other end begin scratching back to life, I had come to a door that led into the connecting hallway where the wrestlers waited for their matches.

“Yes?”

“Miss Isabella?”

“Speaking.”

“Thank you,” my mind raced for a name to use, and I settled on the first famous name I could remember, “Please hold for Professor Oak. He's got a very generous proposition for you.”

Before she could answer me, I simply hung up. With any luck, she wouldn't realize what I'd done for at least a few minutes, more than enough time to corner Tora without that manager of his.

 

–

 

I found Tora after only a few minutes. He was loitering outside of the locker room, already changed back into that black suit. As I observed him from around a corner, he was looking around, seeming confused. I gathered my courage, gripping the pokeball in my pocket, and got ready to step into his view when I heard a noise and shrank back.

“Tora!” cried a tiny voice, “It's Heat Tora!”

Children? My eyes widened as four kids ran into the hall, screaming the wrestler's name. Tora seemed surprised, and stared down at the tots. Two of them were quite young, the next oldest was a girl about ten, and the oldest was a teenage boy.

“I wanted you to win Tora!” cried the oldest boy, “You're so strong!”

“Tora? Can I have your autograph?”

Tora stared at the kids, who had dug programs and pens out of their pockets and were holding them out for the wrestler to sign. The wrestler looked around the hallway, to confirm that there was no one who could see him, and I shrank back. However, I could still see when he reached wordlessly into his jacket and pulled out a small black box, about the size of a cigarette case, and flipped it open.

He began with the smallest of the children. He pressed his palm into the box, and then pressed it into the front of the program. I was impressed by the cleverness of that glove he was wearing, because when he lifted his hand back up, I could see that even from this far away, he had left behind a perfect paw print. The little kid screamed in delight and hugged the man's leg as he did the same for each of the four kids. Eventually, he bent over, offering his arm to the little girl. Knowing exactly what to do, she grabbed hold, and soon she was giggling as she was lifted up off the ground by the wrestler's flexing bicep.

Another voice soon resounded from around the corner. I was afraid that Isabella was already back, but when the children reacted with disappointment, I could tell that it was one of their parents, looking for them.

“Bye Tora!” they each said in turn, before running away. The oldest boy stayed back, offering his hand in a wordless handshake. Tora took the boy's hand in his own, and shook, obviously being careful with the young teen's hand as he did. Soon, he was alone in the hall.

I blinked, and for a moment, it almost seemed like the mask was smiling. I shook my head, and scoffed, that was silly. Good with kids or not, Tora had a lot to answer for, and it was up to me to ask the questions.

I finally turned the corner, one hand in my pocket with my grip around Friday's pokeball, and the other holding down the button on a recorder in case Tora said something, anything, when he was confronted.

“Heat Tora?” I said, “George Hare, Saffron Tribune.”

He went stiff all of a sudden, and stared at me, as if caught in some embarrassing act. He crossed his arms and towered up to his full height. I tried not to be intimidated, and forged on.

“I'm wondering if you had a comment on something I've been investigating. If you could answer a few questions.”

He was frozen, and then he began to look around, his eyes nearly panicked as he desperately searched for his manager. Hah! Not this time, Tora. It was just him and me.

I began, “Today's match seemed far more subdued than normal, were you holding back?”

Tora did not answer, he just kept looking around. His posture began to sink and he stepped backwards. He seemed cornered, and I was afraid he might run away, but he couldn't get away from me that easily.

“Do you have any comment on today's match?”

Silence. However, in answer to my question, he looked straight at me and began to gesture wildly. Huge hands were in constant motion, pointing from himself to me, to off in the distance, and then to himself again. He then shaded his eyes as if looking for someone, and then pointed at himself. Was he trying to communicate?

“Do...” I said, beginning to get a funny feeling about this wrestler, “Do you have a comment on your ten win streak? About your brutal style?”

He shook his head and continued to gesture. My eyes went wide, and the recorder in my hand lowered. Of course. It was so obvious now. Why didn't I put it together?

“Can... can you talk?”

Tora froze for a moment, crossed his arms, and simply shook his head slowly.

My shoulders slumped. Just my luck. It wasn't that he didn't talk because of some gimmick. He was actually mute, and had integrated that into his persona. I would have thought it was genius if I didn't find the whole thing so annoying.

“Listen, Mr. Tora, I would like to answer some questions. If I helped you find Miss Isabella, could you answer some questions yourself through an interpreter, without Miss Isabella speaking for you?”

He considered this for a moment, and his eyes darted back and forth, before he stared me straight in the eye and held out his hand. I smiled. This was probably as good as I was gonna get, even if I didn't know how much I could trust this guy.

As soon as my hand was enveloped by that huge hand of his, I stiffened up. The handshake was nearly bone-breaking, and even then I could sense so much more power he had chosen to hold back. When I was done with the hand shake and tried to pull away, he did not let go. He merely stared ahead, beyond me, looking to wherever we were going.

It took me a moment to realize he was telling me to lead him to Miss Isabella, hand-in-hand, but once I understood that, it was simple enough to lead the wrestler by the hand. Being this close, I could smell an odd musk coming off of him, almost like singed hair, mixed with sweat, and I wondered anew just what this man looked like under his mask. The way he had indulged those children really made me question my first impression. Which was the true Heat Tora? The killer or the friend to children?

The whole display had made me remember when I was young, and idolized the people up in the ring. They were unattainable heroes that I desperately wanted to meet, and if Tora was one of those people, that was certainly worth a certain amount of respect. Then again, ever since I took on this line of work, I'd learned that wrestlers were always just people, with flaws, just like the rest of us. I had to remember that when I covered the truth about Tora, even if that truth was uncomfortable.

Eventually we made it to a large set of ornate double doors with a stainless steel sign marking it for 'VIPs Only' where I knew Miss Isabella must have been, since that was the phone I had called to lure her away. I didn't want to encounter her myself, and so I stopped and gestured to the door.

“She's in there, I think. If she's not, someone in there can help you.”

Tora let go of my hand, and stared at the door, before turning back towards me. He nodded his head.

“Listen,” I said, digging the program and a pen out of my pockets as I spoke, “Remember our deal. If you can figure out a way for us to communicate, I'd love to have an exclusive interview. Here's my number. Give me a call, okay?”

I held out the program for it, and he stared at it for a moment, before he took it in his hands.

“Anyway, uh,” I said, feeling the meeting turn awkward, “Call me. I'll be waiti-”

My goodbye was cut short, however, when Tora leaned down over me, and grabbed my shoulders with both of his hands. I tried to spit out something to say, like “What are you doing?” but before I could, Tora had thrust his face into mine, letting the cheek of his mask brush against me. He then pulled back and went after the other side of my face, and while he did, I thought I heard a small rumble from deep in the man's throat. Was that a purr? I wasn't sure. The fur felt somewhat oily, but was also soft and thick, not to mention warm. I was so stunned by this sudden cat-like affectation that I simply stiffened up as he stepped back, and then opened the door and stepped through, as if he'd said a perfectly normal goodbye.

I had to admit, awkward as it was, I respected the dedication to the gimmick. I couldn't help but smile as I watched him close the door behind him. After a moment, I remembered myself, and frowned. I couldn't get the wrong idea. This guy was dangerous, I couldn't go thinking he's anything more than a bloodthirsty adversary who would kill me if I got in his way.

With new found resolve, I turned away and began to walk. That was a bust, but I still had any number of avenues open to me. Tora seemed almost like an innocent, so maybe he was just a pawn, and someone else was pulling his strings. My mind went immediately to Miss Isabella. Perhaps she was the one to put pressure on.

As I lost myself in thought, I nearly missed the ring of my cellphone and snapped out of it. I dug it out of my pocket just in time to see the number – the arena's VIP room, the same number I dialed before – and clenched my jaw in nerves. Maybe the arena installed caller ID when I wasn't looking. If that was true, I was in trouble. I shrugged. If the moment to speak with Miss Isabella was now, then so be it. I answered the phone.

“Hello?” I said with a jaunty lilt.

There was no voice on the other line, but I did hear a strange noise, like a scuffle. I furrowed my brow. You couldn't butt-dial a wall-mounted telephone. This had to be on purpose.

“Hello?” I repeated, nervously.

There was another bout of silence, and then voices far away, laughing. And then, to my surprise, there was a huge, roaring noise, like the cry of a pokemon, and my eyes went wide. This call was coming from the same phone I used to lure away Miss Isabella, which was inside the VIP room I just left Tora.

I spun on my heels and broke into a run back towards the VIP room. Sensing danger, I finally pulled out my pokeball and released the mechanism holding it closed. Immediately, floating on his own telekinesis, Friday was running alongside me, and after a moment of reading my mind, he knew the situation and took the lead.

Soon, we made it to the VIP room entrance and, sure enough, I could hear noises of clattering furniture and voices inside, yelling. Furrowing my brow and preparing for a fight, all I could do was open the door and look in.

No sooner did I have the door open than I had to dodge a large, black object flying my way. Friday and I each hid from whatever it was behind the thick doors, and when it rolled along the ground and came to a stop in the hall, we looked to see what it was. It was the broken body of a man I did not recognize, wearing black-on-black-on-black. Turning my head to look inside, I finally saw what Tora was dealing with.

He was surrounded by something like ten men in the same black suits, with various pokemon floating and scurrying around his feet, biting at his ankles and spitting clouds of poison into his face. Tora, to his credit, seemed confident, even if he seemed in over his head, and for every attack landed on him, he was swift to retaliate, and soon whatever it was, human or pokemon, was sent flying into a wall, or crashed into a table and sent knick-knacks flying. The phone was hanging off the hook on the wall, and dangled down, still feeding the audio into my phone.

“Tora!” I yelled, “What's going on?”

He turned at my voice and his eyes went wide. However, in his distracted state, he couldn't defend himself from a man smashing a wooden chair over his head. Tora closed his eyes, but otherwise barely flinched. He then turned and, with a perfect clothesline to the man's neck, sent him into the hardwood floor headfirst.

Seeing me suddenly as a threat, a man with a Koffing began to approach me. I stepped behind Friday, and finally took in what this black uniform seemed to mean. It was a black suit jacket over a black turtleneck, with a black hat, and on the lapel there was a pin with a red, stylized R. Great, the mob. I guess that explains the match-fixing going on, but what did this mean for Tora? Did they betray him? Or were they stopping him?

The Koffing rushed forward, spewing gas that stung at my eyes even when I wasn't close enough to touch the cloud. Friday, however, leaped forward and held out his little arms. He began to glow with power, and a beam of psychic energy flowed out of him like a bullet and smashed into the Koffing, sending him bouncing around the room like a deflating balloon. Taking the moment in my hands, I grabbed the only thing within reach, the reciever of the phone hanging from its cradle, and used it to clock the Rocket across the chin, sending him to the ground and smashing the hard plastic in my hand.

Ignoring the rocket for a moment, I cried to Tora. If he was against the Rockets, maybe he wasn't a bad guy after all.

“Tora!” I yelled, “Close your eyes!”

Tora looked over at me, but then nodded and crouched down, covering his eyes with his hands. With that, Elgyem, who already knew the plan, rushed into the middle of the melee and unleashed a move no self-respecting journalist who might want to take a picture would leave home without.

“Flash!” I yelled, even though I didn't need to. It felt good.

With my eyes closed, I could still see the whole room light up, as if the sun had suddenly risen and bathed the room in blinding light. Voices cried out in surprise and confusion, and I turned, without thinking, and started to leave the room without seeing if my plan had worked. When I felt the little grip of Friday's telekinesis on my clothes I felt relieved.

When we were clear of the VIP room, I looked for Tora, and was surprised to find him running right next to me. His suit was ripped and torn in some places, and I could see red underneath. I feared he was losing blood. However, he was clearly not injured enough to slow him down, as he easily overtook my untrained pace. I called out to him, telling him to wait up, and he slowed down.

“We need to get out of here,” I said, “Where's Miss Isabella?”

He looked down at the ground, sadly. I was astonished at how expressive those yellow eyes of his really were, even through a mask.

“Alright, we need to get out of here. If they're after you, we can't go to either of your places. You gotta come with me. We'll find a safe place, okay?”

He nodded, and then, without asking, he suddenly bent over and encircled my stomach with his arms. I made an unmanly noise of surprise as I was easily lifted off my feet, legs still rotating in the air like a cartoon character who just stepped off a cliff and didn't know yet he was supposed to fall down. Handled like a bag of flour, he spun me around so my stomach was pressed against his shoulder and held me down in an easy fireman's carry. I was too surprised to object, and when Tora really took off, I was astonished at how fast this guy could haul ass when he really wanted to.

 

–

 

With Friday still hanging off of my clothes, and being followed up the stairs by a masked wrestler who was only hours before my sworn nemesis, I finally crested the top step of my apartment building, and approached my lonely room, number 405, _Chez George_. I sighed, hoping inviting this guy home wasn't a mistake. At the same time, the story had become a lot deeper than a wrestler going overboard in the ring, and I needed him alive to source whatever this story actually was. I stuffed my key into the lock, and soon, opened the door.

To my annoyance, before I could step inside, Tora pushed past me easily and entered the room as if he owned the place. I tried to object with a weak “Hey!” but he just ignored me and made a beeline right for the couch, and climbed onto it, zeroing in on the depressed place where the couch was molded to my posterior.

“Well,” I began, wondering how I should take this behavior, “Make yourself at home, I guess.”

And make himself at home he did. The big man simply stretched right out over the entirety of my couch, and seemed as if he might go right to sleep. Friday, for his part, immediately floated over to his corner of the room, littered with rubix cubes and books full of logic puzzles discarded haphazardly around his little plush bed.

“So,” I said, “Before you drift off, I think we should talk, or at least I should talk and you can listen, okay?”

Tora opened one eye, half-lidded, before opening both eyes and rolling over onto his side to watch me quietly fume at this invasion of my space. I couldn't help but think that Tora was taking the gimmick a little too far. He was acting just like some kind of spoiled house cat.

“Look, Tora, You know you can take off your disguise here,” I said, closing the door to prove my point.

However, he answered by closing his eyes and seeming to drift off to sleep.

“Hey! Wait a damn minute. I brought you here so we could figure this stuff out. You can't sleep yet.”

I dragged a chrome-legged chair over from my little kitchenette and set it down in front of the couch, facing Heat Tora. I sat down, arms crossed, and leaned over, putting my face close to the wrestler's mask.

“We need to talk about Miss Isabella.”

Tora's eyes were wide open then, and he even sat up from his prone position. I wondered how anyone could get comfy in a tight-fitting suit like that, but it wasn't my place to tell him how to live his life. There were more important things. It seemed, in fact, like he very much wanted to say something, and his eyes pleaded with me to figure it out.

“Hey Friday,” I said, calling my pokemon over, “Maybe we can simplify this with a little psychic power.”

Friday, happy to be useful, smiled with his eyes and dropped the three different rubix cubes he had been solving at a time – slow day for him, he must have been tired – and he approached the couch with purpose. He began to glow faintly, trying to get an idea of just what was going through this weird wrestler's mind, and I waited for Friday to go over to any of the laptops and tablets I had stashed around to type something up to help me. Instead, the glow slowly stopped. Friday seemed genuinely confused.

“Friday? What's wrong?”

Friday froze for a second, before he went over to a little pad of paper with a pencil I kept on an end table next to the couch, and wrote two words, and showed them to me.

NO DATA.

“No da... what? What are you talking about? You couldn't get anything?”

Friday seemed disappointed in himself, and he floated away in shame, burying his big gray head underneath the little blanket in his bed. I felt bad. This was how he got when a puzzle really stumped him. It must have been serious.

I turned back to Tora and was annoyed to find that he was drifting off to sleep again.

“Hey! Focus!” I cried out, snapping my fingers, and he made a little chuffing noise, “If Friday can't read you, you'll have to tell me what you need yourself. Try this.”

Thinking quick, I simply handed him the pad of paper and pencil. Awkwardly, he took them in his hand, and fumbled with the pencil like a child who had never held one before. He looked up at me again, defeated.

“What's wrong? Write what you need. Can't you write?”

He made an honest attempt to force his hand to hold the pencil right, but to my surprise, as large as his hand were, they weren't very dexterous. The pencil and paper appeared to have defeated him, and he only managed to draw one scratchy line of nothing before he got fed up and threw them across the room.

This was ending up more trouble than it was worth. This guy was a piece of work. Couldn't talk, couldn't write, I would have been surprised if he could even read. It was impossible to get anything out of him. I figured he must have known how to write something, even if his hand couldn't hold the pencil, so I decided to make it easier.

I grabbed my bag, hoping that he wouldn't throw it across the room, withdrew a tablet computer and unfolded the dust-cover. Soon, it was booted up, and I launched the notepad program. If this didn't work I didn't know what I was supposed to do.

“Okay. You can write like this right?” I asked, showing him how to press the buttons on the tablet screen. Interested, he took the tablet from me, and began to hunt and peck at the screen.

There was a lot of garbage on screen as he figured out the gadget – computer illiterate too, imagine that – but soon, he wrangled some semblance of order out of the program, and managed to write down a few words for me. He turned the screen back to me.

WHAR SIS

“Where is your... sister? Is Miss Isabella your sister?”

Tora nodded.

“I don't know where she is,” I said, “I could search your home. Could you tell me where you live?”

NT SAFE

“Because of the mobsters who attacked you?”

He nodded.

“Do you know why they attacked you?”

Another nod. Now I was getting somewhere.

“Alright, so...” I was excited, this story was finally panning out, and so I dug out my laptop to help me take notes. “... Are they the reason you've been targeting wrestlers like Hunter Smith?”

He shook his head. I furrowed my brow, disappointed.

“So you don't know about the gambling fraud going on?”

I NO, he wrote, concentrating hard on his answers even when they are short and truncated like that.

“And yet the mob isn't the reason you're going after wrestlers?”

He shook his head and hunt-n-pecked for a more complete answer. When he showed me the screen, there was a single word: LIERS

“Liars? You mean the wrestlers were liars?”

He nodded.

“They're liars because... because when they got involved in the mob's match-fixing scheme, it meant the fights were rigged, either in their favor or against them, right?”

The nodding became more vigorous. The subject seemed to be riling him up.

“But why should that matter to you? Do you really just love the sport that much?”

He tapped out a response, and showed it to me.

KIDS

I paused. Was that truly the answer? The key to this whole thing?

“You go after crooked wrestlers because they lie to children?”

Tora nodded, pleased with my ability to understand him. However, I had looked away. What kind of person was Heat Tora, really? I figured that after all this I would have to refocus the aim of my story, and probably give Hunter a piece of my mind... if he ever woke up.

Still, I shook my head. Business at hand came first. A huge muscle-man was going to be staying in my apartment, and I had to figure out the logistics of that sooner rather than later.

“Alright, you can stay here while we figure all this out, okay?”

Tora didn't bother nodding, he just laid back down.

“Don't you want to take off your costume?”

Tora laid on his back as he tapped out an answer on my tablet and showed me: CANT

“Why not? I won't tell.”

CANT he typed again, and then curled up on the couch, fully clothed.

“Well, at least take off the suit. I don't care about the mask, but that suit will get wrinkled if you sleep in it. Those are your only clothes.”

I realized that I was starting to treat this guy like he was some kind of child. I wondered if there was something to that. Can't read, can't write, can barely communicate. He was basically a six foot tall baby who can suplex you.

Still, he had some kind of sense of compromise, so he sat up, clearly annoyed, and began to undo his tie and unbutton his shirt and jacket. Soon, he had pulled them both off, revealing that he was still wearing his full-body jumpsuit underneath. Soon, he had unbuttoned his pants and kicked them off as well. I frowned.

“Oh come on, you can keep on the mask, but don't sleep in your costume. That's gross.”

I reached forward to feel his arm, expecting to feel lycra, or spandex, or something similar, with sweat soaked through from a day of hard work. However, I did not expect the sensation of fur.

Fur? A full, fur jumpsuit? That's his costume? I thought he was crazy, until I felt closer. The fur wasn't attached to a piece of cloth over his skin, and didn't bunch like it would have on anyone else. The fur felt attached to the skin beneath it, as if I was petting some creature.

It was in that moment that everything began to make sense. I looked up into Tora's face, and realized for the first time the truth. I was fascinated, suddenly, when Tora, sensing that I had figured out his secret, opened his mouth in a massive yawn, breaking his face's frozen position, and revealing two rows of sharp teeth. Heat Tora was not a man. Heat Tora was a pokemon. He wasn't dressed as an Incineroar. He was an Incineroar. My eyes went wide and I stood suddenly from my seat, knocking the chair over.

I couldn't deal with this, not one bit. I clenched my jaw, staring at those yellow eyes, which I realized had been his true eyes the whole time. There was a story here, a great story, but I could not bring myself to do anything else with it. Without another word, I retreated, keeping my eyes on this creature stretched out on my couch as I moved through my living room, and nearly dove into my bedroom, and closed the door behind me.

 

–

 

The next morning, my breathing was hard and slow as I woke up, sweat pooling all over my body. Uncomfortable and warm, I struggled to keep my eyes closed. I wondered idly if I had a fever, and began to kick the covers off of me, trying to cool off. However, something on top of the sheets was preventing them from moving.

Blinking and groggy, I struggled to wake myself, and groped for the blankets. I needed cool air, and I needed it now. When I suddenly felt a handful of fur, my eyes went wide, and I struggled to roll over and straighten up.

There, curled up right against my back, was a huge, red slab of muscle. Sometime in the night Tora had crawled right in to my room and curled up against me. I'm sure I had a look of incredulity in my face. I was about to complain, loudly, but then I remembered what had happened the night before. This kind of behavior would be strange for a guy in a costume, but for an actual pokemon? Maybe this is normal for Incineroars.

I laid back down, eyes wide, and wondered what I should do. The heat really was extreme, but now that I was used to it, it was almost comforting. Funny how that works. This wasn't any kind of a pet, and even having a creature like this in my bed could have been dangerous. I wasn't his trainer, and I had no idea whether or not he would wake up hungry, or even what he ate or when he wanted to eat. Eventually I would have to feed him, and I hoped that I wouldn't be on the menu.

I felt movement a moment later, and suddenly felt an arm drape around my shoulder. Tora had rolled over, pressing himself against my back, spooning with me through the sheet. He seemed almost possessive of me in that moment. I mean, he really was just a big cat, right? But he also passed for and lived life as a human in disguise, so was this weird? What was this, exactly? I focused on the sensation of a hot, fuzzy brick pressing into my back. The small of my back was slightly warmer, where his belt would be. I could feel myself getting lulled back to sleep, especially when I began to wiggle slightly to get comfortable, and I felt the immense vibration coming from the Incineroar's chest massaging my shoulders with his purring.

I don't know how much longer I slept, but as I was at my most comfortable, my warmest, and my most serene, I was suddenly jolted awake. I felt rough skin against the side of my face suddenly, waking me up, and smashing me against the pillow. I tried to figure out what was happening, and all I could see was the Incineroar batting me on the face lightly while staring at me with an expectant look.

“W-what?”

Bap. Bap. It was gentle, for him, but I felt like he could easily give me a black eye if I wasn't careful. He was hovering over me, but I noticed I was no longer being held down by his weight over my sheets, and so I swatted his paw away and sat up.

“What!?” I repeated, angry.

Tora continued to stare, but thankfully stopped batting at my face. I took a look at the clock. Eight AM, almost exactly, way too early for me to be getting up, but at the same time, Tora wanted something, and clearly wasn't going to let me go until I gave it to him.

I stared right back at him, waiting for something to happen, and soon, Tora snorted loudly, crawled across the bed, and swung his legs over to stand up. It was strange seeing something so man-shaped but also so inhuman in a place as intimate as my bed. I wondered what people who had friendly machokes did when their pokemon wanted to cuddle. I noticed as he turned his back on me that there was actually an odd, rough nub at the base of his spine above his rump, which seemed to move slightly. That explained the lack of a tail, I supposed. He must have lost it somewhere down the line, and that helped him pass more easily for human.

I sighed, and threw off the covers. I scratched myself through my pajama bottoms, and rolled out of bed, standing up, and pushed past the Incineroar who had made himself just a bit too much at home in my apartment.

Almost as soon as I opened the door, however, he pushed his way past me, entering the room first, and then, bold as brass, sat right down at the little table where I sat and ate breakfast.

“Well, I guess that explains it,” I muttered to myself as I wandered towards the little kitchenette where I had a small refrigerator. I didn't have much, but I could make a sandwich at least. I reached for the lunchmeat, but froze as I realized who it was I was feeding. This was a pokemon, right? I had the pokemon food I fed to Friday, but considering the way Tora just sat right down at the table like a person, I was sure that wasn't going to cut it. I sighed and took out the package of lunch meat, closed the door, and from the top of the fridge, picked out one of the cans of pokemon food for Friday.

After some prep, I took the two breakfasts, one a bowl of pokemon chow with Friday's name printed on the side, and the other a blue plastic plate with a ham sandwich on it. I fed Friday first, since he had been sitting up for some time, doing the daily crossword puzzle. When I placed his bowl down on the floor next to him, he looked at it, then up at the plate intended for Tora. He squinted his eyes suspiciously.

I bristled at Friday's stinkeye, “He's a guest,” I said, lamely, before I turned away from my pokemon and slammed the plate down for Tora.

Tora stared for a moment at the food I'd given him. He looked up at me, then at the food, and bent over to sniff at it.

“Oh come on,” I said, “Don't do that picky cat thing now. Unless you want to eat Friday's food, that's all you get.”

That was the end of it as far as I was concerned. I left him with the sandwich while I made a bowl of cornflakes. The three of us stared at one another nervously as we ate. Friday was clearly on edge about sharing space with the dark type predator, and Tora simply bored holes into me with his piercing eyes. When Tora finally decided to eat, he bent over again, using a finger to flick the bread off of the top of the sandwich, before going to town on the pile of meat I gave him, simply thrusting his face into the pile and chowing down until the plate was clean, except for two pieces of bread. He licked at the bottom piece, getting all the meat juices and mayonnaise he could off of it, and then left the rest of the bread untouched.

I grimaced at his table manners, but didn't say anything. I turned away and grabbed the remote control off the table and turned on the TV, intending to check the sports network for anything related to what happened yesterday.

Be careful what you wish for. Almost as soon as I switched over to the wrestling coverage, I saw a video of Black Hawk, a big-shot title-holder in the KWF, doing some micwork. Tora perked up, his ears going perfectly erect. I was sure if he still had a tail, it would have been swishing back and forth in anticipation.

Black Hawk was another masked man gimmick, except his costume was clearly inspired by those Hawlucha birds from Kalos. He was also an unrepentant heel, known for using his partner pokemon, an actual Hawlucha, to cheat in every other match he was in.

“Heat Tora!” cried Black Hawk on the TV in a gruff accent, “I got what you're looking for...”

If Tora was interested before, he was positively fascinated now. He nearly leapt off of his chair and crawled on his knees towards the TV, getting so close I had trouble seeing past him.

Hawk continued, with a laugh, “She's all nice and safe. The way I see it, you got two real good options, and a lousy one. Either you unmask yourself and retire, or you can face me in the ring this Saturday at KWF's Kanto Slam. Then again, if you're a Wimpod, you could run away with your tail between your legs, and let the girl... well...”

He ran a yellow-gloved finger over his neck, laughing all the way. After that, with a flourish of his cape, he and his Hawlucha both vacated the screen, and soon the news coverage went on to the next story.

The room was tense, and Tora continued to stare at the TV. I was afraid that he might break it. The temperature of the room was rising – and with a fire type in the room, that usually meant trouble.

However, when Tora turned to look at me, I could see a certain calm in his eyes. I realized that this world was his. It was an obvious trap, and one it wouldn't be easy to escape once he stepped into it. However, he was a wrestler. This was his creed. This was what he was born to do. If it was going to be a fight, it would be a fight.

I nodded. Somehow I understood his feelings, and so I stood and gathered up the discarded pieces of the Incineroar's suit, intending to put him back into his human disguise once more. First pants, then socks, then shirt. I realized in a moment why Miss Isabella was so important to him. His paws were so large and unwieldy that he couldn't do up the buttons very quickly so I helped him out, and then tucked his tie under his collar so I could start tying it. The two of us were face to face as I tied his necktie on, and he stared into my face as I did. Once I was finished, I looked up at him, beholding him as he slipped back into the persona of the mysterious masked man, Heat Tora.

“Ready to cut a promo, Tora?”

In answer, he nodded, and then reached forward with his face. I wondered if he was going to rub my face with his again, but when I felt something wet and rough run up the side of my cheek. It was just this side of painful, as the barbs rasped against my skin, but when it was done, I felt somehow good, as if this Incineroar had said something profound and personal to me. I smiled up at him as he stared at me intensely, with the tip of his tongue still sticking out. I smiled, and reached up a finger to touch his tongue-tip and let him know what he looked like.

“Lets do this,” I said, and he answered with a nod, before we left my apartment.

 

–

 

Without Miss Isabella, cutting a promo for Tora was an interesting challenge. We decided that having me there would just put me in danger, and so he decided to give his challenge alone. He had the announcer read a statement, and as he did, he got hold of a promotional still of Black Hawk holding the championship belt, and, using a cigarette lighter, began to burn it while staring right into the camera. The whole thing took maybe five minutes, but it was a powerful image, and a powerful message. _I'm coming for you, and I don't care what you got on me. You're going to burn._

After the pageantry was over and done with, it was time for the business angle. Black Hawk was a no-show, but his manager, a thick-set, Baltic-looking man, handed down the terms.

“If you win,” the man said, simply, as he sat across from Tora and I wiping his bald forehead lazily with a handkerchief, “Heat Tora will unmask, and never wrestle again.”

I scoffed. “That's ridiculous. You're asking too much of my client.”

“Seeing as you are not his manager, you do not get a say.”

Tora simply sat, eyes closed, arms crossed, appearing to be deep in thought – a look he probably cultivated to cover for his lack of speech. I took initiative and spoke up.

“What does Tora get if he wins?”

“Black Hawk is the Kanto Heavyweight Champion. We can make this a title-match, simple. If Tora wins, he gets the belt.”

“You would just give up the belt?”

“If we lose. We won't.”

He seemed confident, and I was unnerved. I had more questions than answers here.

“What about Miss Isabella?” I asked.

“Well, she does not seem to be here at the moment, so we must conduct business without her.”

“You know exactly why Miss Isabella isn't here!” I said, my voice rising, “What are you going to do about it if Tora grinds your Hawk into the dirt?”

“Given that I do not know what you are talking about, I cannot comment on that,” he answered, cool as a cucumber, “But I have been instructed by Black Hawk to pass on a message.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“'Cooperate and nobody gets hurt.'”

Tora's eyes opened, the anger clear in them. That was their game. They weren't about to give up their leverage any time soon, but there was no way not to accept this match. I could feel the trap closing around Tora, and all I could do was watch as it happened.

Eventually, Tora looked over at me, and, silent as ever, he nodded his head.

I sighed, “Fine. Tora accepts.”

“Wonderful. We will deliver the contracts soon...”

“But,” I yelled, standing up and shaking a fist, “We won't lose. Tora's going to win, you'll see.”

“Yes, we will see, won't we,” was all the man said as he stood and walked out, not so much as glancing back at us.

 

–

 

Saturday. The day came all of a sudden, as Tora continued to stay at my apartment. The door-frames became chin-up bars and the couch was bench-pressed often, and usually with me or Friday lounging around on it. During the day, Friday and I left to continue our research into Black Hawk, reviewing tapes of his past matches, and at night, bearing a lot of spray deodorant to combat the smell of a wild animal turning a tiny room into his own personal gym, we returned and reviewed our findings.

Officially, Tora was a heel, certainly. He went after grudge matches with established faces and ruined their careers, but he didn't come close to the level of sheer cheating prowess of Black Hawk. Video after video, Hawk would bamboozle or distract the referee and get cheap shots in while nobody was looking, and often the Hawlucha he kept in his corner would rush in while the ref was occupied and land an attack on the wrestler, leaving just in time for Black Hawk to go in for the pin.

Tora watched the footage I found for him voraciously. Pokemon or not, he was a professional, at least until bedtime when the human affectations dropped, and he took on the personality of a cat who has found a house that leaves food out for him. My bed became his, as if I was just visiting it every night, and if I tried to move out to the couch so he could have it, he tried to climb onto the couch with me, curling up over my legs and trying to get comfortable. Eventually, we came to an understanding. Half was his, and half was mine. That didn't stop him from curling right up against me in the night, but it was at least more comfortable for the both of us.

But then Saturday came, and the both of us were all business. We left the apartment early in the morning, intending to arrive at the arena nice and early to prepare, and once he was ready to go, I left him alone, fading into the press pen with everyone else, and pretending I had nothing to do with the whole thing.

I spent the next hour with Friday riding on my shoulder, helping me take notes. The odds-makers were out in droves, and Black Hawk was the clear favorite to win. Even so, with how savage Heat Tora was, he still had a chance, and that's all he needed, I was sure of it.

Soon, as butterfrees began to climb up my throat out of nerves, the crowds were seated, the announcers were making their announcements, and it was time for the wrestlers to make their entrances.

“In the Red Corner, the defending champion of the Kanto heavyweight title! That wretched bird of prey – the mask of death – the black-heart who will do anything to win. Presenting; Black Hawk!”

A chorus of boos roared over the crowd. Clearly Black Hawk was no one's favorite wrestler, but at the same time, he was the one they loved to see the most. He swaggered down the catwalk, shirtless, except for the scalloped black-and-violet cape he held wide, emulating his namesake. With wings held wide, his pokemon followed close behind. The Hawlucha was a shiny, his feathers a rare combination of black, violet, and deep red that matched his trainer's costume exactly. Driving hard rock played in the background as he approached the ring, and whipped off his cape, and his Hawlucha leaped up to catch it in flight before it could touch the desperate plebes in the audience. The ones who held out their hands to try found themselves pecked on the knuckles by the flying pokemon, who looked smug as he did it.

Black Hawk entered the ring with a clean leap, springing through the bars, and then rolling back to his feet from a somersault and posing like a Hawlucha, arms wide and held behind him like wings. His muscles were defined and shining, and I was intimidated for Tora, but even then I knew the Incineroar would certainly put up a fight.

“In the Blue Corner, the challenger! The red hot lariat – the demon clad in fur and teeth – the brutal cat of the ring. Presenting Heat Tora!”

Tora's music rose up suddenly, an Alola-tinged tune that began almost serene, but soon rose in tempo and mood, until it was a driving drum-beat, presaging the arrival of a wild animal on the scene. Heat Tora appeared in a spray of pyrotechnics, wrapped in his own cloak. He walked down the catwalk, fire erupting behind him, his steps slow and deliberate. As he walked, and as the music drove on, however, his walk turned into a run, and then into a sprint, the red striped cape was flapping behind him from the force of his speed. He didn't stop as he approached the ring, and as soon as it seemed like he was going to smash into the side of the ring, his legs bent, and he sprang up into the air, spinning like a gymnast. He landed on top of the turnbuckle, his feet immediately finding their balance on top of the post, and he struck a pose, thrusting a finger up into the air, and aiming his venomous stare directly at Black Hawk.

After a moment, to my astonishment, the crowd erupted, not in boos, but into cheers for Heat Tora. I wondered what the audience knew that I was missing, but I smiled anyway, glad that the crowd was on the right side.

I turned to a colleague, a guy from the Celadon times I vaguely knew, “What gives? I thought people hated Tora.”

“Not the kids, they always liked him for some reason,” he said, writing notes, “But after that video got uploaded this morning, it's no contest.”

I was confused. I hadn't had a chance to check my newsfeed or read a newspaper. While the two competititors came down from their poses and began to prepare themselves for the match, I began to reach for my phone, but Friday was already on top of it. With tablet in hands, he had called up the video in question and showed it to me.

“Thanks Friday,” I said with a smile, and watched it.

It was a video of Miss Isabella, in her usual business pantsuit, but with an added layer of grime and wrinkles all over it. Even so, she had a grand smile on her face as she addressed the camera. She was holding whatever camera she had to point at herself, trying her best not to shake it.

“I don't have much time, darlings, so lets get the basic facts out of the way. I'm being held somewhere, I don't know where. I stole a phone, and now here I am. I am Isabella Tora, Manager to the wrestler Heat Tora. I am being held against my will by Team Rocket – remember them? Well, they are involved in one hell of a sports gambling racket, and I appear to have gotten too close to it.”

There was a noise in the background, and she lost a bit of her composure as she looked around. However, she stayed on message, and once the noise subsided, she continued.

“My wrestler has been seen as a brute, so cruel that he would steal wrestler's careers away from them, but did you ever wonder why?” she smiled, and winked her eye, “Check in the video description. Download it. Share it. Post it. It's yours now. Knock Black Hawk dead for me, Tor...”

Suddenly, she dropped the phone, and the video cut out. Some voices and scuffling were heard, but soon the video ended. I felt awful for her, but I had to admire her pluck. I checked the description and found a file available for download. I didn't even need to know what it was. It had to be the evidence implicating Hunter Smith and the others for their role in Team Rocket's racket, along with a 'Personal message' from Tora.

“To protect the smiles of children everywhere.” it said, and though I knew Miss Isabella probably wrote it, I also knew that's what Tora's true feelings were.

I smiled and looked around at all the faces in the crowd. Tora wasn't a bloodthirsty monster anymore. He had literally transformed overnight. His behavior was explained. He was brutal, but he used his brutality for good, to protect those he cared about. Everyone knew what was on the line in this match. The honor of a hero was on the line, and the life of Miss Isabella.

My thoughts were interrupted when the bell rang. I gave my tablet back to Friday and resolved to watch the whole thing. I didn't even take notes. I barely even blinked. I didn't want to miss anything.

The match started innocently enough as the two wrestlers circled one another. To my surprise, Black Hawk had the height advantage, but only just. Tora's build was wider, but Hawk seemed more defined, probably because the fur obscured Tora's muscles. Looking at the two of them faced off, I didn't know which one truly had the advantage.

The peace was broken all of a sudden when the two wrestlers, each seeing an opening, rushed forward, gripping one another by the shoulders, and trying to force the other into submission. Two sets of arms and legs quivered in exertion, and I could see Tora's eyes shining in barely contained rage.

A loud footstep beat against the mat, resounding over the cheers of the crowd. Tora stepped in, using his massive strength to force the issue. He dipped his head down, and shifted his grip lower, before jerking to the side, sending both himself and his opponent into the mat. With the advantage, Tora recovered first, and managed to spin around and sling both legs around the face-down Hawk's knee, and, with his arms around his opponent's neck, he contracted, making Hawk scream as his leg was forced backwards by the massive strength of the Incineroar.

However, Hawk was not weak by any means, he refused to give in just from that. He found a weak place in Tora's grip, and had enough leverage to force his neck out of the hold. Tora naturally reached for the man's neck to redo the hold, but Hawk thrust his head backwards suddenly, driving the top of his head hard into Tora's nose. Tora let go with his legs, and rolled away, holding his face, and Hawk was suddenly free.

“Tora!” I felt myself scream, not even meaning to. Friday stared into the side of my face, and I grimaced. I cared more than I thought I did, clearly.

Seeing his chance, Black Hawk began to climb the turnbuckle. The crowd rose in volume as the masked man worked it for the crowd, blowing kisses and laughing as his opponent rolled around on the ground. Then, once he was finished, he spread his arms wide, standing with his legs wide, standing on the top ropes, and leaped into the sky, towards Tora's prone form.

Their figures were frozen in time for what seemed like an eternity, but it truly only lasted half a second. The crowd cried out for Tora to get up, and, as if answering the will of the crowd, Tora opened his eyes in a flash, and rolled away. Hawk landed hard on the mat, stomach-first, body-splashing nothing but the dirt.

Wind knocked out of Hawk, and with Tora still holding his nose, both struggled to be the first to their feet. It was almost simultaneous, but Tora seemed to have the advantage as he surged towards the masked man, who was still climbing his way up the ropes. However, Hawk was ready, or at least Hawk's Hawlucha was. Outside of my notice, while he was leaning on the ropes for support, the Hawlucha had passed something up to him, and he swung it hard as he turned.

A flinch went through the crowd as the folding chair connected with Tora's face. He managed to get his arms up in time, so the hit wasn't clean, but he was still sent to the ground.

The referee, finally seeing some shenanigans, approached Black Hawk, waving his arms wildly. The two of them were screaming at one another, the ref obviously giving Hawk a warning, and telling him to get rid of the illegal weapon before he called the fight right there. Hawk refused at first, seeming to laugh at the ref and toy with him, pushing the ref's patience as far as it could go.

I thought that this would give Tora the time he needed to recover, but I had forgotten. With the referee distracted, there was nothing to stop the Hawlucha from sneaking into the ring and interfering. As the Incineroar got up to his knees, he turned his head at a sudden noise. He could barely react as the speedy Hawlucha flew at him, gripped Tora's neck between his legs and, with a strength belied by his shorter stature, lifted the Incineroar off his feet, flipped him in the air, and slammed him to the ground. From there, still flying high, the Hawlucha landed hard right on top of Tora's chest, beak first. A Flying Press, a Hawlucha's natural weapon.

By the time the referee had turned around, the Hawlucha was back beyond the ropes, but Tora was still on the ground, struggling. It was hard to tell through his red fur, but I could see drops of blood rise up when he coughed from the sudden strike to his solar plexus. He kept his shoulders off the mat, so the ref didn't start the count, but it took him a long time to gather himself.

It was then it dawned on me. I was the only one who understood what truly happened. Everyone else in the room thought Tora was a man in a costume. A Flying Press from a Hawlucha would hurt anyone, but Tora wasn't just anyone. He was a pokemon, and a pokemon with the type disadvantage at that. My eyes went wide. He was in real danger, and I was too lousy a trainer to realize it until now.

Knowing he couldn't take another cheap shot from that Hawlucha without getting knocked out, I suddenly stood, and began to push my way through the press pen, and out into the crowd, down towards the ring. I pleaded with the universe to let me get there before it was too late.

Once Tora was back on his feet, the referee called for the match to continue, and Black Hawk, smile on his face, rushed forward to take advantage of his injured foe. However, Tora, bless him, wasn't down for the count yet. As Hawk rushed ahead, Tora managed to turn, and then jump, sticking out a leg in a rolling sobat to catch Hawk in the stomach. Now they were both out of breath, and I had time to do what I needed.

As soon as I pushed to the front of the crowd, my first thought was a command for Friday, who had followed me like a ghost. He floated over the barrier keeping the crowd from interfering in the fight, and I screamed out as I began to climb the barrier myself.

“Hey, birdbrain,” I cried out, getting the Hawlucha's attention, “Heads up!”

The Hawlucha was fast, but as he turned towards me in confusion, that left him open to his flank, where Friday had fired a psychic attack directly into the fighting type. Super effective!

The crowd was going wild. They didn't know me from Adam, of course, but they were happy to see someone mitigating Black Hawk's cheating ways. I chanced a look towards the ring, and saw Tora had noticed me. I nodded towards him, and he nodded back, before squaring off against his own opponent.

Black Hawk had noticed as well, seeing his Hawlucha still reeling from the psychic attack. He nearly didn't notice when Tora ran full tilt into the ropes and bounced off, gaining speed, and hooked an arm around his neck. Hawk went hard to the ground, and Tora was right on top of him, lifting up Hawk's leg and laying his whole body over the man. The referee fell to his knees, preparing the count.

The Hawlucha had recovered by then. My Elgyem had the type advantage, but he was a glorified clerk, and not a fighter. The flying type considered briefly taking out his revenge on the little gray pokemon, but as soon as he heard the one count, he sprang into action.

“Tora!” I cried, “Watch out!”

At the count of Two, Tora saw the Hawlucha coming, and before the count of Three, he rolled out of the way, knowing that he couldn't take another direct hit from the bird of prey. The Hawlucha buzzed past, and was about to zoom around for another pass, but the Referee stood in his way, screaming for the pokemon to get the hell out of the ring, or else that was it and Black Hawk was disqualified.

Still on the ground, and with both me and Tora in earshot, he smiled and began to laugh. As the Ref was arguing with his pokemon, he began to speak.

“Hey, freak,” he said, climbing to his knees and taunting Tora, “This is your last chance. My boss saw that stunt your girl pulled. They're this close to taking her and bumping her off, get it?”

“Where is she?” I screamed over the crowd.

Hawk looked over at me. I was an insect in his eyes, but he answered anyway, “By now, a limo on her way to the great unknown... unless your buddy here throws the fight.”

Tora paused. I wondered if he was really considering it. Unmask? Now? After everything that had happened? He couldn't.

Hawk was on his feet by then, and the referee had come back. The Hawlucha had been ejected from the ring, and the fight was back on. He kept on talking.

“Last chance, Tora,” he said, “Let me pin you, or else you never see the girl again.”

Tora froze for a moment, and then moved his eyes to me. We connected then, and all of a sudden, I understood his feelings. This was the moment, and he needed me. I nodded my head, knowing what I had to do. I turned, calling for Friday to follow me, and the two of us rushed up the catwalk where Tora had entered from, intending to catch that limo before it left.

“Hey! Stop your friend, or else the deal is off!” screamed Hawk, and he made the fatal mistake of turning his back on Tora to say it, watching me go.

I turned back to see what was happening before I left the arena, and I saw Tora's arms suddenly strike out and clutch Hawk's chest. His eyes went wide as he was caught. With a roar, an actual, real, live, bestial roar which shook my chest down to the heart, the Incineroar came out of Tora, and he lifted the man easily, slamming him to the mat in a perfect sublex. However, before he finished, from his arched-back position, he rolled over, resetting his position with Hawk, and, over the man's loud whining protests, he was suplexed again, and then reset, and then slammed down again. After a fourth time, with the crowd going wild at this quadruple suplex, Tora enacted another reset, and then one last suplex, pushing the man's shoulders into the mat and then freezing in place like a statue in a beautiful human bridge. The referee slid into place, and began to count.

I didn't need to stay for the three-count. Tora had won, completely, and I had a limo to catch.

 

–

 

Outside, it was already getting dark. I nearly didn't see the black limo begin to drive away. However, Friday caught it just in time and pointed it out to me. It was on the far side of the parking lot, slowly pulling out. We had to be fast.

“The tires!” I cried, although I needn't have said anything. Friday was already floating as fast as his telekinesis could propel him. After a moment of gathering his energy, the shadow ball he formed in his hands flew out, and struck the limo broadside. It began to spin out from the force of the attack, and it mounted the sidewalk, and came to a full stop, the tire ruined.

I ran towards the limo, but stopped when men began to filter out of it. The clowns just kept coming out, and I was soon outnumbered. Fear lit up my body, and Friday floated out in front of me, giving me at least that much security.

The Rockets spotted me, and soon, the army had come to bear against me. However, as I braced for a clearly unwinnable fight, something brown flew into my view, and struck one of the rockets right on the head. The beer bottle shattered hard, and the man stumbled, a bloody gash opening up in his forehead.

I spun around to see what happened, and saw a whole crowd of people pouring out of the arena, chanting as one; Heat Tora! Heat Tora! Heat Tora! More garbage came flying at the rockets, and all at once the numbers were equalized. I heard the pop of pokeballs opening on both sides, and, sensing that I somehow held some sway over the fans of Heat Tora, I called out, “Get 'em!”

The two groups clashed in the parking lot. I could smell Koffing gas, and I heard the squeaks and squawks of common pokemon clashing against the mob's trained fare. Meanwhile, Friday and I tried to fight as little as possible. We ducked and weaved through the crowd, trying to make it to that Limo, to free Miss Isabella.

With the rockets busy, it was simple to get to the limo, and all I had to do was clock the one guy they had left behind with a Grimer to protect their hostage. I opened the limo door and saw the woman, tied up, and staring at me with harsh eyes.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

“Time to go,” I said. Friday was already working on the ropes. He undid them almost immediately. Once her hands were free, Miss Isabella rubbed her wrists and shook the pain out of them.

“Where's Tora?”

“Winning,” I said.

“And who are you again?”

“A friend. Long story. Are we going or not?”

“Pushy,” she said, before she reached out to take my hand to let me help her out of the limo and to her feet.

The riot in the parking lot had reached a fever pitch, and so I lead Isabella around the fracas, towards a side-door to the arena where we could re-enter and regroup with Tora. Soon, the two of us were back within the relative safety of the walls of the Saffron Arena.

 

–

 

The two of us stayed quiet as we snuck through the underbelly of the arena. The locker rooms were only a few halls away, and I was convinced Rockets could come out of the walls to ambush us. Miss Isabella seemed to be all ice and calm as she led me through the arena.

I heard a sudden noise, a cheerful chuffing, and I saw all at once Tora rushing towards us. We were both scooped up in his vice grip, and crushed to his chest in a hug. He rubbed his face against one of us, and then the other.

“Tora, stop,” Isabella said, smiling as she scratched him behind his ear. I suddenly felt jealous, and wondered if Tora would let me do that. “We're being followed. We have to get out of h... wait. Where's your belt?”

Tora looked down at his waist, where there was only the natural belt which glowed with his own inner fire.

“Did you leave the ring before the referee could award you the belt?” she said, “We have to get back there. Your career is important.”

“More important than our lives?” I argued.

“Your life, maybe. I still haven't caught your name.”

“George. George Hare.”

“Wait. You're that nosy journo.”

“Yup, that's me. Now can we please go before...”

However, it was too late. I heard it before I saw anything. The pop of a pokemon coming out of a pokeball. I turned around, and saw a man in a wide-brimmed black hat and sunglasses to accessorize his suit of black-on-black. Next to him, four arms flexing in vanity, was a Machamp.

“Well, now isn't this nice,” The man said, “All the people messing with Rocket business, all in one place, ready to be crushed.”

I glanced at Tora. Another Fighting type, and a fresh one at that, and here was Tora, blood still streaming from his nose, bruised all over. On the other side of me was Friday, the right type for the match, but barely powerful enough to make any kind of a difference. My mind raced for something to do, but I was quieted when Tora pushed past me.

The man laughed, “Come on, man, you can't fight me. Just give in. I'll make it quick.”

To punctuate his speech, the man pulled a switch knife from his sleeve. His smile widened. However, Tora did not back down, and I realized that Friday and I couldn't stand down either. Miss Isabella's face never lost that cool little smile either. Maybe we could pull this off, all four of us together.

In a flurry of movement, Isabella and I got out of the way and circled around, while Tora, sensing it was time, unleashed an inner power I'd never seen him use. From his fire belt, his fur began to erupt in flame, until his whole body was a roaring inferno. The Machamp and his trainer both seemed surprised to see someone they had thought was a man in a suit burst into flames, and that gave me and Friday the moment we needed.

The psychic attack struck the distracted Machamp true, and while it didn't do much damage, it sent the fighting type into a sudden confusion. While he was reeling from that, Tora struck, blitzing into the Machamp hard, and the fire exploded through the hall, singing the ends of my clothes, and making the man scream in surprise.

When the smoke cleared, Tora and the Machamp were standing face to face, both weakened a great deal. However, when I saw Tora's legs buckle, I cried out. However, a green bottle was smashed over the Machamp's head before he could counterattack Tora's hail mary. That little bit was all it took, and the Machamp sank to the floor, defeated by Miss Isabella, holding the remains of the beer bottle in her hand.

She spun around with the broken bottle, seemingly more than willing to knife-fight the man with the glass in her hand. However, the sight of Tora unleashing his power had caused the man to fall backwards, sitting on the floor, his blade discarded on the floor.

“You're... you're freaks! Freaks! The lot of you!”

I picked up his discarded switch blade and pointed it right at him. As soon as he saw the metal shining, he turned and began to crawl away, and then found his footing and broke into a run.

“Should we let him go?” I asked, “He saw Tora...”

“He saw Tora do what?” Miss Isabella said, simply, “That man was crazy, spouting nonsense about a guy bursting into flames. Rockets can't be trusted.”

Her matter-of-factness made me almost believe it. Still, I was worried that there were more on the way, and I knew that Tora could barely stand after all that.

“C'mon,” Isabella said, “We'll be safe at the ring. The rockets won't let themselves get caught on camera. And Tora has a belt to collect.”

Tora smiled, a lopsided grin, and with my and Isabella's support, the Incineroar was able to stagger back towards the ring, to claim the prize he had fought so hard for.

 

–

 

A week later, it almost seemed like a whole era had passed me by. With Miss Isabella back, Tora went back to wherever he was living before. After a brief, hurried thank you from the woman, she took Heat Tora back to the locker rooms and I was left alone back at the press pen, eager to write my story. With deadline looming, I locked myself in my apartment for three days, sending emails and phone calls to my editor and the various contacts I had at the paper, and all the while picking at the story, until three days later, I had my word count, and was satisfied with my reporting on this episode. The Rockets weren't going to be happy to be featured on the sports page, and maybe I should have worried about what they would do, but at the same time I didn't care. As I closed my laptop after sending the email to my editor, it almost felt as if a chapter of my life had ended.

I looked around my room. Friday was still there, playing his games as usual, but somehow the place felt emptier. I was glad to have more space, but the scent of a wild animal lingered over my furniture, and the nights were a lot colder without that hot brick curled up next to me.

I opened my laptop back up. I'd just finished the story of my career. I should have felt like lying back and taking a well-deserved vacation, but the only thing I wanted to do was get back out there, to do what I loved. If Tora could do it, then so could I. I sent off a message claiming the coverage on Saturday's match, and went to make some coffee. There was still a lot of work to do.

Saturday came fast, and I was nice and early to the arena, Friday on my shoulder. All the usual rituals were there. The announcements, the call-outs, the drama, and, of course, the matches themselves.

I walked into the arena through the front, looking up at the posters in the lobby twenty feet high depicting Heat Tora, glowering into the camera, wearing Black Hawk's belt slung over his shoulder. I smirked at the sight of it. I was sure Miss Isabella was very happy about the billing. Tora had made it. He was the feature of the night. He had been a mid-card drama item before, but beating a champion backed by the mob has a way of elevating one's position. I was happy for him, but the bitter-sweetness was setting in. He had made it, and he probably wouldn't need me hanging around him. No big deal, anyway. That wasn't my job.

I walked past the displays, past a gaggle of kids posing for selfies around a life-size cardboard standee of Tora, and with a flash of my press pass, I was let through the ticket booth and into the press pen. There were very few of my colleagues there yet – I really was quite early – and I found the silence somewhat comforting.

Opening up my bag, Friday and I began to get ready for the day's work, when a security guard approached, clearing his throat.

“Mr. Hare? Mr. George Hare?”

“Yes?”

The man seemed grim as he jerked his head to the side, towards the door. “Someone wants to see you. Come with me?”

Suspicious. I narrowed my eyes and gave him a sidelong glance, but stood anyhow.

“What's this about?”

“Miss Isabella asked for you specifically.”

My frown immediately morphed into a smile, as I perked up. It was Tora. Tora wanted to see me!

“Friday, stay with the stuff,” I said, as I followed the man out of the door, “I'll be right back.”

Friday nodded his bulbous head and waved his little hand, before going back to booting up my laptop. I knew I would probably have to close about thirty different games of solitaire before I could get to work, but I didn't mind. Let the little guy have his fun.

The security guard led me out of the press pen, through an employees-only door, and soon we were back in those familiar halls where wrestlers dwelled. The guard knocked at a green room door, and, when a woman's voice bid him enter, he opened the door for me, and let me pass. He closed the door behind me and soon went back to his duties.

I looked around for that familiar red pokemon and his manager and with a smear of red and black across my vision, Tora leaped forward, right at me. A sudden weight slammed right into me, pushing me into the closed door, knocking the air out of me. I was startled for a moment, but then I felt it through my face, which was suddenly pressed against the big cat's chiseled chest, covered in a layer of dark gray fur. Purring.

“T-Tora?” I said, “Hey buddy.”

He answered by circling me with his arms and pushing his face down to rub the top of my hair with his cheeks.

“Well,” said Miss Isabella from somewhere past the wall of cat which had me pinned to the door, “This explains a lot.”

Tora stepped aside, still with an arm around my shoulder like a friend, and I could see Miss Isabella sitting at a couch, a tall glass of champagne in her delicate fingers. She was smiling.

“Explains what?” I asked.

“Why Tora hasn't been focusing as well during training,” she answered, placing the champagne down on a coffee table, before gesturing to a chair across from the couch, “Sit. Have a drink.”

“Uh... Thank you,” I said, allowing her to pour me a glass as I sat. Tora, hanging onto me like a shadow, crouched down next to the chair. Miss Isabella watched the Incineroar with some amusement, and I drank to hide the embarrassment and confusion on my face.

“As you can see,” she continued, “he's been distracted by something. He hasn't been able to sleep through the night, and he keeps trying to climb in bed with me. Naturally, that's not acceptable. Things have been... tense. I wonder if you perhaps had something to do with that.”

“Well, uh...” I began, trying to think of an excuse, before I gave up with a sigh, “Yeah, I guess so. When I brought him home with me, we got kinda friendly.”

“So I notice.” She took another sip, staring at me over her glass, and I wondered if she was judging me somehow. When she finished, she placed her glass on the table and turned her gaze over to Tora. “Tora. Why don't you give him that thing you got?”

Immediately, Tora leaped to his feet, and rushed over to a locker in the corner of the room. He began to rifle through his things, making strange chuffing noises as he did, and soon, he found what he was looking for. He straightened up, and then turned and held out a small, velveteen box to me as he approached my chair. I stared at the box, not comprehending what I was looking at.

“W-what's this?” I asked.

“What does it look like?” snapped Isabella, “A gift from Tora. Open it.”

Echoing her sentiment, Tora thrust the box forward, blinking slowly in my direction. Carefully, I took the box from him. It wasn't heavy at all, and whatever was inside seemed to roll around as the box changed hands. With one last glance up at Tora, I opened the box.

Inside, there was a pokeball. It appeared to be a perfectly normal, functioning pokeball, but it had also been customized in Tora's colors. It was deep red, with black stripes on the top, and on the underside, it was a solid charcoal gray. There was nothing else in the box, and so I picked the ball up and gave an experimental push of the button. It popped open, revealing that it was empty. My brows knit together in confusion, and I looked over at Miss Isabella.

“Don't look at me,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, “He spent a bit of his prize money on that – without consulting me first, I might add – and he wants you to have it.”

“Oh. Well, uh...” I began, trying to find words, “I mean, thanks. I don't really know what I'm going to do with it. I'm not really one of those guys who's super into wandering around the wilderness capturing stuff. Friday is enough for me.”

Tora seemed to frown as I said that, and he knelt down in front of me, glaring straight into my eyes. He reached forward and tapped on the pokeball, and then using the same hand, tapped on his own chest. He seemed so serious, and almost disappointed in my words.

“Wha-?”

“If I may,” said Miss Isabella, “I think what he's trying to tell you is simple; that pokeball isn't yours.”

“Not mine?”

“No. It's his.”

I felt my back straighten. No wonder it was empty. My head whipped from Miss Isabella to Tora, and I suddenly felt nervous.

“His...”

“Yup. If I'm not mistaken, he wants to be your pokemon. You must have really impressed him. Incineroars are tough to please.”

“But...” I began, standing up and walking away from Tora, confused, “Wait. Isn't he your pokemon? I thought you were his trainer.”

She laughed, and downed the last of her champagne, “Hah! Him? A trainer? No. He's as wild as the first day I met him.”

“Wild?” I repeated, trying to understand what was happening.

“I found him in a 2-bit local Alola circuit a couple years ago. Wild or not, he somehow tricked the event organizers into letting him fight. When I found him, he was almost found out, and I helped him out by lying about being his sister. I couldn't let them take that away from him, so I offered to represent him as his manager.”

“But not as his owner.”

“Nope. He's free to do what he pleases. That was part of our bargain, and what pleases him appears to be you.”

“I... I see,” I said, turning back towards Tora. He had stood back up, and I soon found myself on the receiving end of a lick across my cheek with that sandpaper tongue of his.

“You have no idea how weird that is,” said Isabella, standing and starting to leave the room, “I'll let you two get reacquainted, I suppose. Remember, though, Tora is still under contract to me, and he's got a schedule to keep, so you had better be up to a challenge.”

“Well, of course. He's got to keep fighting.”

“Glad you understand,” she said, opening the door. Before she left, she looked over her shoulder into my eyes, and gave a little smile, “I expect him to be even stronger now that he has someone to fight for. Understand?”

I turned my head towards Tora and stared up into the Incineroar's face. I smiled, and held up a hand. The wrestler wasted no time and he moved his head to let me touch him on the face and under the chin. The sight of the big pokemon just enjoying my touch filled my heart with a warm feeling, and I turned back towards Miss Isabella, smiling bigger than I ever had before.

“Got it,” I said, “Thanks, Miss Isabella. I won't disappoint you, or Tora.”

She nodded, and then left, closing the door behind her, leaving me and Tora alone together, to figure out how this was going to work.

 


End file.
